Archive for May, 2010

May 5, 2010

Kitteh Love

I live with executioners. Unblinking, unwavering, undaunted killers. And they both LUV me. How does a kitteh show his love? (Put your lunch down right now if you’re smart) He leaves you presents – furry, feathered, used-to-scamper-and-frolic presents. The first week of spring yielded my very own horror show version of the 12 Days of Christmas.

On the first day of spring my beast of a kitteh gave to me: One dead white bunny.
On the second day of spring my beast gave to me: One stiff robin.
On the third day of spring my beast gave to me: A still twitching chipmunk.
On the fourth day of spring my beast gave to me: A field mouse, gray with pink little paws.

He stopped there THANK GOD because if I came out the front door and screamed for a fifth morning I’m pretty sure my neighbors would have been miffed. They’re musicians and they don’t get up at the ass crack of dawn like I do. BTW, all their musician friends greet my chief killer cat by name affectionately as if they are on intimate terms. I think he’s over there sitting in on jam sessions when he’s not out killing things.

So, how do I know all these delights were meant for me? (really, put the sandwich down) They are always left on the front door matt and are in perfectly preserved condition. The bounty he takes for himself ends up in pieces and parts and requires a hose to get off the porch. I hated dissection in school, but I passed, so I can tell you what a mouse spine and a chipmunk liver look like as the water wooshes them off the porch.

The carnage had stopped for a while until this morning’s offering of a beautiful little gray mouse. The creepy part is that said mouse had been totally licked clean – maybe like a kitteh Popsicle or something. I gave the cats a little bowl of milk yesterday. Really, I would prefer to have been thanked another way – maybe by a nice lap snuggle or a keyboard crawl.

Have you ever been given a gift out of the “heart” (get it!) that you really would prefer to have not gotten?

May 4, 2010

The Drunk Girl In My Bathroom

Last night a drunk girl came to visit. I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me. Yet, there she was – clothing somewhat optional and drunk off her ass – in my bathroom. Her name began with a J (I do know her name, but I think she’s suffered enough indignity to end up drunk in a stranger’s bathroom, don’t you?). So, Miss J had a bad day. And if I can infer enough from her tears, Miss J’s bad days had come in a series that began when she was 13 and her mother died. Miss J was somewhere in the vacinity of 30 so when I say drunk “girl” really, please don’t picture a 17 year old. Miss J should have known better than to be drunk off her ass at 7:30 pm at her age, but those bad days have stacked up against her.

My sister happened to come over somewhere in the midst of me getting Miss J out of the bathtub and into her skinny jeans. Have you ever had to get a fully grown, drunk, woman out of a bathtub and into a pair of skinny jeans? I should add that Miss J is my height – so please don’t picture a petite little 17 year old. My sister and I have both been drunk girls in bathrooms at one point or another – typically, I can speak mostly for myself here as my sister will have to answer for herself – in our own or at least friend’s bathrooms, so I’m not calling pot shots out at anyone, okay. But if you are going to go out on an all day bender perhaps skinny jeans are not your best option. So, my sister and I got the drunk girl out of my bathroom and into my kitchen. “Oh, look a dog. Cute doggie. I like dogs. Oh, look, are those children . . . there are small people here?” (cue my husband literally shooing the children out the front door and off to get pizza with his arms akimbo like a blue oxfod wearing father goose.) And no, I don’t usually wait until 7:30 to feed them, but it was Cub Scouts night. I am sure there’s not a badge for drunk girl saving.

So, Miss J’s phone was dead. The one person Miss J wanted more than anyone else in the world was – her father. This part did surprise me. My father would absolutely have killed me. Luckily for Miss J her father was listed on the white pages website. Thank God he’s of the generation that still has a landline and actually answers it. So, Miss J’s father is on his way and we’re still feeding Miss J Ritz crackers, water and ibuprofen. Have I mentioned how happy I was that Miss J declared, “I’m not a puker” when I handed her a bucket to put on her lap? The skinny jeans had been enough for me.

So, here’s where this is going. Miss J, while attempting to smoke a cigarette with me holding my hands underneath hers so she wouldn’t burn herself (I don’t smoke and yet I facilitated a drunk girl holding a burning object – surely there is a badge for this in the Senior-level Girl Scout handbook!) looked up at my sister and said, “are you married? cause my dad is totally going to hit on you.” (he did not, for the record) So, should I feel guilty because the only thing I could think of is “wow, this would make a great story – the couple who met over a drunk girl in a stranger’s bathroom.”